


Failure, As A Government

by tardigradeschool



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blatant Overuse of Italics, M/M, Rustling Bushes, Sidewalk Caterpillars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigradeschool/pseuds/tardigradeschool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil dies. Carlos, as a responsible citizen, will not stand for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Failure, As A Government

“Cecil!” Carlos’s best pants have been ruined; the small caterpillars that like to live in the pavement have gnawed right through the knees. “Cecil, stop that right now!”

 

Cecil doesn’t so much cough as convulse, listing into Carlos as he does, and when he can breathe again, he croaks, “Sorry!”

 

Grabbing the lapels of Cecil’s vest, Carlos hauls him onto his lap with shaking hands. “Don’t be sorry,” he says, something cold twisting in his stomach. “God, Cecil, what are you even-”

 

Stifling another cough, Cecil brushes his fingers against Carlos’s lab coat. "Your lab coat," he rasps. There’s blood, Cecil’s blood, just beneath the pocket. “Internal hemorrhaging,” Cecil offers, by way of explanation. Carlos can feel the vibrations of his voice deep in his chest, and grips him a little tighter.

 

“Stop it,” Carlos says again, useless, wretched. “Cecil, I need you to not- not do this.” He’s holding him now, palms cupping Cecil’s jaw.

 

“Oh,” Cecil sighs, and he leans his head into Carlos’s hands. He blinks once, slowly, heavily. “Oh, Carlos.” And then what he was going to say, if he was going to say anything at all, disintegrates into the early evening air. Carlos can feel it go, and it sends panic spiraling through him, electricity in his bones and fingers.

 

“No,” he says, “No, Cecil, no, no. Don’t. Cecil. _Cecil_.”

 

Cecil doesn’t answer. Carlos shakes him, not gently, then feels at his neck for a pulse. Nothing, but Cecil’s pulse does stop on occasion. He shakes him again, rougher, by the shoulders, and Cecil’s head, which had been propped up by Carlos’s knee, falls backwards over it. His Adam’s apple is painfully sharp at that angle, and the (Carlos had had trouble even thinking the word) hickey that he’d left above Cecil’s collarbone as a joke this morning stands out embarrassingly clearly even in the thin light.

 

Carlos exhales. He runs a hand down Cecil’s pinstriped vest, smoothing it, before gently removing Cecil from across his legs, taking care not to bump his head on the way down.

 

Rocking back, Carlos looks at the night sky. Mostly void, with some stars. He scrubs his palm over his face. “Excuse me,” he says. “There is something I’d like to say.”

 

His voice sounds trembly, fragile, as it hangs in the air, and he takes a couple more breaths before saying loudly, “Cecil Gershwin Palmer _consistently_ forgets to brush his teeth in the morning.”

 

He pauses a moment, to make sure the empty street can hear him right. “Cecil Gershwin Palmer _very rarely_ washes his hands. Cecil Gershwin Palmer _steals_ packs of sugar from the Arby’s and then _empties them in his cereal_ for breakfast. Cecil Gershwin Palmer gets _patently defensive_ whenever anyone criticizes his cooking, despite claiming he’s open to feedback as he _passive aggressively dumps_ his lasagna in the compost, where it doesn’t even go.”

 

Pausing for breath, Carlos glances at the street. The bush that just appeared on the opposite side of the road is rustling. He makes sure to raise his voice as he says, “Cecil Gershwin Palmer _never_ clears the table! Cecil Gershwin Palmer _leaves his toenail clippings_ on the floor! Cecil-” His voice breaks. “Cecil Gershwin Palmer has the _nerve_ to die in his _fiance’s arms, two weeks_ before their wedding!”

 

The bush is rustling more, and there is a distinct staticky beeping coming from the one that just popped up beside it. Pushing himself onto his knees, Carlos yells at it, “He has _not yet_ earned a free lunch at Jerry’s Tacos, because he likes to try to fold the little tickets Jerry gives him into _very small origami fortune tellers_ , which he _promptly loses_. Cecil Gershwin Palmer is not capable of earning a taco, so how can he have earned-” Here, Carlos pauses, both for dramatic effect, and to steel himself. “- _death_? As a _responsible citizen_ of the greater Night Vale area, I am _very disappointed_ in your _failure as a government_.”

 

There is a whirring sound from the bushes, and the distinct murmur of low voices. Carlos sinks to his heels, knowing he’s done all he can, then hastily leans forward again and adds pointedly, “Also, Cecil prefers oatmeal raisin cookies to chocolate chip.”

 

The murmuring stops, the murmurers clearly shocked, and for a terrified moment, Carlos fears he’s gone too far.

 

And at his knees, Cecil heaves in a great breath.

 

Carlos drags him into a sitting position as he splutters for air, wrapping his arms around his shivering fiance and holding on. “Oh, thank God,” he whispers. “Thank God, thank God. Cecil. _Cecil_.”

 

“Huh?” Cecil says, groggily, probably a little confused as to why Carlos is clutching him so. Cecil himself is usually the clutcher, and Carlos the clutch-ee. “What- oh, uh, hello, Carlos- what happened?”

 

“You died,” Carlos admits to Cecil’s shoulder.

 

“Did I?” Cecil sort of awkwardly pats him between the shoulder blades. “Sorry about that.”

 

Carlos pulls away a little to lean his forehead against Cecil’s, unsteady breath cracking into a very small giggle. “You don’t need to worry. I took care of it for you.”


End file.
